Fighters Up

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  He was lagging behind the main body of the scattered Circus and turned for home. The 109 astern was overhauling him. He was bemused with weariness and frustration. He felt bullets hitting the armour plating behind his seat. He hoped that no shells would burst there. He was more scared than he had been for months.

  Now what should he do?

  He had better spin out.

  But if he reduced speed and raised the Spit’s nose to induce a stall, he would increase the area of his aeroplane that the enemy pilot could see: give him more to shoot at. He sideslipped coarsely and the Spit juddered so much that he feared that battle damage to the airframe might result in pieces falling off or controls failing.

  The 109 surged close overhead, buffetting him with its slipstream. He held the sideslip for a few seconds while the 109 turned. He corrected, put the Spit into a climb towards it, and fired. He missed: the target was travelling faster than he had judged.

  At last he stalled into a spin and held it until he knew he must be low enough to have shaken off his attacker.

  It was only when he returned from leave that he learned about the improved Me109F, which was faster than the E and faster than a Spit. The odds were in Jerry’s favour again as regards speed and climb, but the Spit could still turn inside any 109.

  That had been a sortie he could never expunge from his mind; all the more alarming because he felt he had got the measure of sweeps and Circuses.

  Rhubarbs were another matter. He never felt at ease on them. He even thought that a fighter pilot was prostituting his aircraft and himself when attacking ground or sea targets. Their proper function was combat against another aeroplane, bomber or fighter. At least Rhubarbs were better than attacking with two 250 lb bombs, as the Hurricanes and some of the Me109s were doing. It was small compensation.

  Apart from what he considered to be the misuse of both fighters and their pilots, there was the horrible light flak that one faced at low level: the quadruple clusters of 20 mm guns. Then there were the 37 mm. They were not as prolific, but their 160 rounds a minute were terrifying. Not as awful as the 900 r.p.m. of the quadruple 20 mils, but even more destructive because of their greater size. Both calibres of gun could engage fast, low-flying aircraft effectively and the mere sight of 20 mm tracer coming up thick and fast turned one’s bowels to jelly.

  On the evening of his return from leave, his squadron commander, handing him a brimming pint tankard, said “I’ve been waiting for you to come back, Boost. I’ve found a wizard target to prang, but it needs pretty good navigation to get there and back without Jerry suspecting where we’re going.” The squadron leader looked pleased with himself. He also looked at Howard as though he ought to be pleased too. Howard was considered to be the best navigator on the squadron, apart from the C.O.

  Howard said, with the pretence of seriousness which was calculated always to arouse howls of protest and possibly provoke someone into pouring beer over his head, “If we both got hacked down, sir, it would leave the squadron without any decent navigators at all.”

  This speech had the expected effect.

  “Debag him,” someone yelled.

  “Blackball, blackball ...” This entailed having one’s trousers and underpants removed and shoe polish smeared on one’s testicles.

  “Dunk him in the static water tank ...” These abounded, for firefighting.

  “Fetch the line book ...”

  “Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all?” several voices chorused.

  The squadron leader silenced the riot. He was a black-haired New Zealander, with the features of an intelligent race-horse, the physique of an international fullback and an insatiable appetite for courting trouble of every kind.

  “There’s nothing to it, Boost: it’s a railway cutting I’ve spotted a couple of times, hedge-hopping back from a Circus or a Rhubarb. I’ve been keeping a bit of an eye on it, and a goods train comes through every morning at twenty-three minutes past eleven. There’s always a locomotive at each end. I reckon, if we knock ‘em both out, we can strafe the wagons goodo: and they’re obviously loaded with war materials.”

  “Thank you very much, sir. But why not take one of the types who need navigation practice?” There was another outburst of noisy protests. Howard drank his beer. When it had stopped, he went on, sounding as reasonable as a sorely tried man trying to be fair: which was difficult, because he suddenly became aware that someone had stuck a matchstick into his right shoe and was trying to give him a hotfoot. When he had dealt with this, he resumed. “Jumbo is the locomotive specialist ... I mean, he’s got that train set in his room ...” Jumbo kicked him and made him spill some beer. “Hey, steady on ... and Titch loves flying in railway cuttings ...” Titch, who stood six feet two inches, had once had to fly down a long cutting to save himself from being shot down by a pursuing Me109 when he had run out of ammunition.

  Titch now spoke from somewhere behind Howard. “Yes, but I don’t know if I could do it right way up ... I was inverted, you see ... and there were all these One-O-Nines ... and ...” This drew jeers and contumely in his direction.

  Howard turned, to find him; and, in doing so, moved his feet; and promptly fell over.

  There were cheers. Titch had surreptitiously taken half a yard of string from his pocket and tied a loop around Howard’s ankles.

  When Howard had liberated himself, stood up and retrieved his tankard, the C.O. said “Right, that’s settled, then. Not Jumbo, not Titch, but you. We want to be on target spot on at eleven twenty-three. We’ll work out a route out and another one back tomorrow morning.”

  Planning the routes was a task to which Howard devoted himself whole-heartedly, in the dispersal but after breakfast. His prime object was to avoid all known flak sites. His enthusiasm for the type of target was lukewarm; as it was for any Rhubarb.

  It became even less, when, as they were about to separate and go to their cockpits, the squadron commander said, with his equine grin that bared huge incisors, bicuspids and molars - but not, Howard would have sworn, any sign of a wisdom tooth - “By the way, Boost, there’s sometimes a flak position on a flat car in the centre of the train.”

  Howard, continuing the analogy, felt as though he had been kicked in the guts by a Suffolk Punch. “U-usually, sir? What ... what kind of ...?”

  “Well, more than usually, I s’pose ... more often ... well, mebbe always ... they’re quad twenty-mils.” He waited for comment, but none came except a slowly spreading rueful grin on Howard’s face. “Not to worry, Boost. I’ll fix the bastards on the first pass. You press on regardless and prang the front engine.”

  Jovial, bouncing, overflowing with vitality, a true son of a young and virile, vigorous nation, the squadron commander strode, whistling, to his aircraft. Howard, watching him for a moment before he made towards his own with his unmistakable rugger three-quarter’s step, - the leisurely pace, each leg straightening, seeming to be actually convex for a moment as it took his weight, that could erupt into a sprint in a fraction of a second - thought that bullfighters were not the only breed who made a fetish of displaying their masculinity and courage. He had recently read a novel about a torero and at this moment he reflected that the last bull, the one inescapable horn, waited somewhere for every soldier, sailor and airman as well as every matador. The only question was, would destiny allow an individual to keep that appointment or not? He hoped his own fate was not down for a date this morning.

  They had allowed time for an error in the forecast winds, so that they would have a few minutes in hand when they were within five miles of their target: thus they could orbit while they waited for the precise moment at which to resume their course so as to arrive on target at exactly 11.23 a.m.

  They streaked across the Channel with the wave tops so close beneath that Howard looked forward to reporting, in the mess later, that he had got his feet wet. But that was the only amusing thought he had. The rest was concentration on precise flying by pinpoints, the clock and the air sp
eed indicator. They changed course in mid-Channel. They hurtled across the French coast at the most weakly defended point they could find. But it was not entirely without defences and they came briefly under machinegun fire. The tracer flashing up at them in red, green and white streaks came nastily close. They altered course again, towards the south of their intended objective.

  Howard kept checking the sheet of notes on his lap with landmarks. So far so good. More machinegun fire where they had not expected it, on the outskirts of a village. Why was Jerry sensitive about that particular place? Worth coming back to have a look sometime. They met some inaccurate 20 mm flak in the vicinity of a power station and veered away.

  They were three and a half minutes ahead of schedule when they reached their waiting area. In a shallow bowl surrounded by low hills, they circled a few feet over the treetops and hedges.

  Then it was time to go. The squadron leader straightened out of his gentle bank and headed north. Howard followed him with a dry mouth and moist armpits, his hands also sweating in their silk gloves and his scalp feeling as though ants were crawling under his helmet. There was no slow, warm feeling of joyous anticipation about this approach to a deep, wide railway cutting on a fine summer’s morning. Instead there was anxiety about the flat car with its four hellish quick-firers and an equally uncomfortable physical sensation that the anxiety engendered. Windiness, never; but a legitimate discomfiture, always now: now that he had been through so many similar situations and even though he had had seven days’ break.

  He saw the smoke hanging low behind the train, from far away. The two engines each drew a dark grey smear across the scenery, their black smoke streaming straight astern, mingling and dispersing.

  The squadron leader rocked his wings and his nose dipped. His slipstream was still rioting about the cutting when Howard followed him in.

  The two of them opened fire at the same moment. The leader’s machineguns sprayed the flat car. He was saving his cannon ammunition for the rear locomotive and goods wagons. There was no flak. The gunners, taken by surprise, must have been wiped out. The front locomotive vomited clouds of steam and smoke and lost speed. More smoke and steam erupted from the one at the back of the train.

  The two Spitfires turned tightly and dived to strafe. There were petrol bowsers among the trucks. In a few seconds fires were raging as spilled petrol ran in flaming streams along the permanent way.

  There was also one ammunition wagon and it went up like a volcano, with a roar and a mass of leaping flames, just after the squadron leader had poured his last shells into it. In his mirror, Howard saw the Spitfire burst apart. Its wings skimmed away from the fuselage. The fuselage broke in half. The pilot was hurled from his cockpit to soar, spread-eagled, a hundred feet high before he began to fall, dead already, to the tracks.

  The shock wave slammed against Howard’s Spitfire with such violence that it accelerated by 30 m.p.h. and was wafted a hundred feet aloft. Its tail swung from side to side.

  Howard fled from the scene, keeping low above the rails.

  ***

  Northam listened without showing his thoughts. His eyes never left Howard’s face. Howard looked from him to the I.O. and then at his flight commander; then round again at each in turn.

  When he had finished speaking he waited for Northam to say something, looking steadily straight at him now. Northam glanced away, looking in the direction of France as though expecting to see the squadron leader’s spectre appear and to hear his disembodied voice amplify his Number Two’s report.

  The sun still shone from a sky in which the only clouds were wisps of cirrus at 20,000 ft. It was a day for the indulgence of the pleasanter sensations of mind and body, not for sorrow; and not for recriminations, Howard hoped. This bright day had brought one of the darkest moments of his life. The squadron leader had a wife, in a thatched cottage a mile from camp: a pretty, vivacious Kiwi girl who had come to Britain to nurse the wounded and succumbed to his extrovert charms. She was now pregnant.

  Perhaps even Northam was not too insensitive to be thinking of her at this moment. Whatever the reason, he made no comment, except “Hard lines. I’d better go and break the news.” It was the first time that Howard had ever come anywhere near to liking Northam.

  No-balls Northam, that noted misogynist, actually feeling concern about a woman? It had always seemed as likely as his flying clad only in his underwear. Perhaps the war had mellowed him?

  But that was not the end of the matter. That afternoon, in the dispersal hut, Howard was reading the Intelligence summary when the wing leader came in and sat beside him.

  “They’ll be clearing the wreckage of that train, Boost.” Northam’s new informality with senior pilots was not necessarily an indication of liking.

  “Probably, sir.”

  “There’ll be Jerries on guard: they won’t trust the French railwaymen to work quickly.”

  “I should think so, sir.”

  “Let’s go and beat them up. I’ve cleared it with your C.O. and flight commander.” The other flight commander, the senior, was acting squadron commander. Northam stood up.

  I bet you have, Howard thought. A stickler for protocol, was The Wingco. He rose, feeling none too happy. “Have you decided on a route, sir?”

  “Yes, straight there. If there’s nothing doing, we’ll have enough fuel to find something else.”

  Gong-happy clot: does he want a bar to his D.S.O. or D.F.C. so badly? The thought made Howard feel bruised and tired, and he had returned from leave refreshed. He tried to give the impression of interest and enthusiasm, studying the map with Northam in search of alternative targets.

  Airborne, his lassitude evaporated. He might not care much for a return visit to that long narrow defile, but he did care a lot for staying alive. His trained and long-experienced senses were alert, his eyes constantly swept the sky and ground: the latter for signs of gunfire aimed at them. One never knew where Jerry would place a flak site, or a machinegun post especially to hack down low-flying strafers.

  They had been accorded the customary welcome at the French coast, but Northam had gone down below the height of the trees and his propellers had nearly sliced into some stampeding cattle in a large meadow. He had stayed close above the grass and nearly ripped a hedge. Howard, cursing, had been obliged to emulate him. It was the sort of thing he would have done himself in certain circumstances; but not in that particular instance and certainly never when he was leading: it was damned unfair to make such demands on one’s Number Two and anyone else in a formation.

  He was looking forward to the cutting even less after this egotistical display.

  Another warm welcome awaited them there. The enemy had positioned half a dozen machineguns, three on each embankment. They opened fire as soon as they saw the Spitfires. The French salvage crew dived under the burned-out rolling stock. There were no German soldiers in the cutting itself, so there appeared to be no point in expending ammunition there. Howard expected his leader to pull out, and, in anticipation, and to avoid damage to his aircraft and the probable wounding or death of himself, he banked and climbed away.

  Tracer pursued him, but he was doing what Bomber and Coastal Command pilots did when he made dummy attacks on them in fighter affiliation exercises: he corkscrewed. This evasive manoeuvre entailed a diving turn in one direction followed by a climbing turn in the other. He had no room to dive when he broke away, so he reversed the tactic: a hard turning climb followed by a tight diving turn.

  He saw that Northam had flown straight on, relying on keeping low and putting the train between him and the machinegun fire. It had not worked. The wrecked train cut off the aim of two of the machinegun crews, who turned their attention to Howard, but the other four had a clear field of fire at Northam.

  Howard saw that Northam was being hit and he immediately turned back to strafe the enemy. He knocked out all three crews on one embankment, by which time Northam had got clear. The three surviving crews now shifted their aim to him. />
  There was no reason for maintaining R/T silence now. Howard called: “Aston, are you O.K.?” Wing leaders chose unusual call signs. Douglas Bader was “Dogsbody”, because he had the letters D.B. on his fuselage. Northam’s bore all his initials, A.S.T.N.; hence his choice of “Aston”.

  There was no answer. Howard could see him, and was chasing after him. He tried again. Still no reply.

  Northam was heading straight for the coast. He had lost speed and Howard caught up with him. His aircraft bore several bullet holes and obviously his radio had been damaged. As Howard flew alongside, Northam turned to look at him. He had undone the fastening that kept his microphone and oxygen mask in place; the fitting dangled from one side of his helmet and left his face exposed.

  His expression was furious. He scowled across at his Number Two and then turned to gaze straight ahead.

  A few minutes later, smoke began to trickle from his engine. It was white smoke from Glycol coolant. Howard expected him to climb while his engine was still putting out enough power, to make enough height for a safe bail-out. Instead, he flew steadily on. Howard, throttled back to his speed, stayed with him.

  What the devil did he intend to do?

  At any moment they would be intercepted by enemy fighters, or fly past a flak site.

  Why didn’t he make a wheels-up landing in some large field?

  The coast was in sight. They were suddenly under fire again from machineguns. A few seconds more, and a clutch of 20 mm quick-firers started to shoot at them.

  The cliff tops ... the beach ... tracer following them ... both of them skidding wildly to dodge shells and bullets ...

  A copious cloud of smoke gushed from Northam’s engine. Howard waited for him to alight on the water and plunge beneath it. Ditching a Spitfire was highly dangerous: there were protrusions on its underside that snagged as it hit the sea and dragged its nose down.

  Northam made a beautiful job of it, a few miles offshore. He skimmed along barely above the surface, then raised the nose and subsided tail-first. He had his hood open. The Spit plunged out of sight, but Northam floated up half a minute later. Circling, Howard watched him climb into his dinghy.